The Companion
by classic dogma
Summary: [discontinued] Prince Marth, already disgraced by exile, is coerced into marrying Jigglypuff. He is subjected to scorn and unwanted pity, and struggles to retain what little sanity he possesse
1. Part 1

**The Companion**

_By Opus Triumphant_

_Being most anxious to post a story on this site, I have determined to upload a relatively short story that I hope readers will enjoy. It will be serialized in three parts, and updates should be reasonably quick. _The Companion_ was inspired by slumberous musings and Edith Wharton's novel _The House of Mirth. _I must own, I am little acqauinted with the history of Marth, beyond those summaries I have found on the Internet, and several lines regarding him of SSBM, so please forgive my ignorance. Thank you to all who read! Ah, and regarding a disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters appearing in this story that are evidently derived from Super Smash Brothers, and/or their respective video games. Any events coinciding with Edith Wharton's _The House of Mirth_ are... ehm... purely coincidental.  
_

_Cheers,_

_ Opus Triumphant (10. 22. 05)_

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**I**

LETTER. FORMER PRINCE MARTH TO LORD ROY OF PHAERE.

_My dearest and most honourable friend, —3 August._

When one is married to a Pokemon, there is neither elegance, nor happiness.

There is a graceless struggle to preserve one's dignity, perhaps, but no elegance. The concept of sophistication, and all that is embodied within, become taunting luxuries. Class, refinement, subtlety: all are luxuries swimming upon the margins of my longing. They mock my memory and constitution, they haunt my mind unceasingly. And oh! when I fling myself forward, looking to seize these conceptions, they hurdle out of my reach, and hover inches from my fingertips, laughing.

Notions, true, cannot laugh. Yet, the idea that they cannot originated in another time, in a rational zone I myself have long been absent from. Here, upon the verge of insanity, everything is different, and tangible: the notion of elegance, stabbed through by the ice pick of my circumstances; the notion of happiness, strangled by the same. The notion of death, winging like a dove toward me, only pausing to preen its toxic, vulture-like plumage when I am too weak and horrified to further entertain it...

I grow diffuse. Allow me to pause, dear friend, and regress in my narrative—to explain myself—to ink my pen. I have come to the point where I am unable to contain myself much longer. I beg of you to be accommodating, just as before, in the course of our friendship. I fear you are the sole support I have in this terrible world. I am waiting now, and the wait it becoming intolerable, and I must do something if I am to keep from slipping into... yes, from slipping. I do not ask that you act upon my account, only that you read, so that you will know me for who _I_ am, and not for who _she_ says I am. Though, at this point, I am not entirely sure if I am in the right—perhaps she is. However, I digress, and seek to influence your opinion. Only read, good Roy, and keep this narrative close. Furnish me with some illusion of relief in my agony! This is all I ask.

**II**

I am a gentleman of good connection. At least, I _pride_ myself upon being a man of good connection. _She_ would disagree, but what does that impoverished creature know of connection? The only reason she may speak of such things is due to myself. Yet, what decent soul would wish to boast having connections with me, Marth, former Prince of Altea?

I cannot remember if Altea is still the name of my mother country. The papers might have said something regarding the subject. It has been long since I last read one, being in no condition to make such an exhausting effort. I have been ill of late. Ill with dejection, I assume. I would ask why you and your doctor friend do not visit me, but there is no point in doing so. I know _you _are busy. As for _him..._

I was once the son of a great Altean king. The fruits of the world had been sprawled at my feet during that time, left to my disposal, dripping with the honey of merit and good position. I do not think I have been happier or more celebrated since: I was the toast of the noblesse, the scion of Altea's throne, the "great example" all sought and looked toward. Allow me, dearest friend, a minute or so of vain reminiscence! I lacked nothing, I wished for little. Life was all kindness—and with her dwelled damnable Change!

I was eighteen when Altea was overrun by the kingdom of Dolua. All that I was accustomed to was devastated and slaughtered, and I myself dragged before Dolua's sovereign and generals, and exiled. My tormentors were crass, for they gave me no horse, allowed me no more than a manservant and a pitiable wardrobe, bundled me from the kingdom with the greatest indignity, insulted my name, and questioned my manliness. I was also left with trifling means, and bereft of all recommendation.

I began my trek with no particular destination in mind. I contemplated vengeance—perhaps I would lead a rebellion!—but was in no state to carry out these thoughts at the time. I acquired a horse only after many a grueling mile, and determined to travel to the furthest extremes of the Nintendo continent, having been banished from my own.

My progress was halted much sooner than I had anticipated. I was unused to such expeditions, and fell sick, fainting upon the road when the conditions became to great. My attendant was forced to seek shelter and medical attention in a nearby town. There was snow upon the ground, and the mountains, several leagues distant, a range of varied blues and uniform white against the brilliance of the limpid sky. My manservant told me, when I was strong enough to attend to his speech, that we were lodged in a sumptuous inn, called the Auberge, some miles from the Icicle Mountain Range. He also enlightened me as to the name of the physician who took care of me during my fevered hours. I failed to catch it.

I was most elated to hear his news regarding the Auberge. I rose, once I had swallowed a bit of mint tea, and dressed. I was delighted to find myself in a chamber most suitable for my erstwhile station, and for a moment, basked in fantasy, supposing I had not fallen, and was still a gentleman of consequence, connection and property.

I determined to dine as a gentleman should, and made my way into the salon. The room was full of early risers, for it was only a little past ten. I was instantaneously caught by the sunlit scene. There were a myriad of aristocratic circles, each member dressed in handsome morning attire, with countenances flushed by the cold (these persons, I presumed, had but lately come in from a promenade). All were seated at neat white tables, which were prettily set with napkins and silverware. The room hummed with the pleasant murmur of conversation, and was pervaded by a number of smells: malodorous whiffs of Cuban cigars, the aroma of butter and cream, bread and hot pork, tea and kippers and Yorkshire pudding. I was most enchanted.

My manservant announced me to the maître d'hôtel, and I was led across the room. The table to which we proceeded was, to my delight, in the vicinity of a circle whose members were splendid in their dress and manners. I alternately laugh and weep to recall that day—my good friend, do you yourself remember? I dare say, your back was to my initially, so you probably do not recall that particular moment. As for myself, deep impressions where made in that instant—there you were, accompanied by Lord Raura, Mlle. Zelda, and Doctor Link, whose overt gentility impressed me. And try as I might, I cannot forgot the two who were imprinted upon the forefront of my memory in that moment: Mrs. Peach, and Mr. Bowser. How _captivated _I was, despite _her_ gregarious tone, and _his_ flask of wine! I was charmed, and my doom was sealed.

As I neared my table, the fatal Mrs. Peach (whose name I was not acquainted with at the time), suddenly bounded from her seat and cried, "Why Doctor Link, if it is not the gentleman you have so generously serviced these past several days! He has entered among the living!"

Her utterance turned heads, there were several exclamations, and I received an arching of thick, crimson eyebrows from Mr. Bowser. Doctor Link rose, looking pleased. "My good sir, you have recovered!" he said, clapping me heartily upon the shoulder. "I am delighted! Please, please, sit down!"

He conducted me to his own seat, and pulled up a chair. I was dizzy with the kindness of everyone's greeting. I started to give effusive thanks. The act was waved aside, however, and the story of my illness, and Doctor Link's intervention, was related. It seems my manservant had carried me into the resort, after I had fainted, and cried, "Is there a doctor who can attend to my master? for he is dreadfully ill!" Doctor Link, hearing his voice, hastened to my side, and gave a quick examination. "Quickly man, he must have a room!" he cried, and the Auberge's proprietor hastened to ready one for my benefit.

I remembered very little of Doctor Link's care. Several of the party assured me is was quite assiduous. Mlle. Zelda, a girl of sixteen who was traveling in the company of her uncle, Lord Raura, professed I had been "several times at the brink of death". Nevertheless, the illness became innocuous, and it was declared that I should recover.

"I must admit," exclaimed Mrs. Peach, at this point in the narration, "that I am responsible for inducing the good doctor from your side. You see, he was keeping vigil, and was looking somewhat drawn and famished, and I was quite anxious. However, I remembered how _dreadful_ you yourself appeared when you were first conveyed into the Auberge, and I was loath to have you abandoned merely for his sake. Yet the report regarding your health was _so_ favourable that I could not help but come to the doctor with my complaints concerning his _own_ health. He was adamant as to being quite well—" And here she laughed quite prettily, sitting back and clapping her little hands. "I told him that a diet consisting solely of tea and kippers would not do, and he _must_ come down and partake of a bit of ham and spirits." She tittered. "But no, he would only have tea. You see, however, that he _did_ come down and dine at a proper table. That was a day ago. Yet, you have recuperated so thoroughly that there cannot have been any danger in the action!" She looked at me with such a charming air and lovely smile that I was quick to concur.

During the whole episode, the doctor merely sat with legs crossed and arms folded over his chest, smiling thinly.

Mr. Bowser had been silent during the whole exchange, sipping instead upon his prime Madeira. Suddenly, he leaned forward and asked, "Now, your recuperation is quite fine and all. Nonetheless, I'd be pleased to hear you give your name; I know your man attempted to give it. I'd rather hear it from the master."

I bowed my head, briefly. "Marth," I replied. "Former prince of Altea."

Mr. Bowser drew back slowly, his eyelids low and manner knowing.

"Truly?" you exclaimed (pray, dearest Roy, would you recall that? For you have never been one for details). "It was all in the papers, what happened with Altea and Dolua! The articles said you had been exiled."

"I was," I said.

There was a great deal of commiseration. "Are you quite alone then?" Mlle. Zelda asked.

"Yes, quite."

Mrs. Peach fluttered her hands. "You cannot mean to say you have traveled all this way without some notable companion, can you?" she cried. She seemed truly concerned.

"Unfortunately yes madam. In that respect, I was quite alone."

"Then you must come with us!" she said. "We are at present touring the northern half of the Nintendo continent, and we would be most _thrilled_ to have you join our party." There was a murmur of agreement, and my eyes widened.

"I am without means or recommendation!" I cried, astounded by the generosity of the offer. "Surely I would only hamper you."

"Ah..." Mrs. Peach gave a slow, disarming wink. "But you are a _prince_."

And it was with that assurance that I was inducted to Mr. Bowser and Mrs. Peach's band. Had I only foreseen the terrible consequences!

* * *

_Comments, questions, and constructive criticisms are all welcome. _


	2. Part 2

**III**

LETTER. FORMER PRINCE MARTH TO LORD ROY OF PHAERE. CONTINUED.

The victims of Misery are given to sad resignation, are they not, dearest Roy?

One would think them so. Several years of their existence has been wasted in anguish; being so accustomed to dining upon tears, one would suppose them to sink into the lake of their misery, looking up at the happy surface with only sighs upon their lips, and acceptance in their hearts. How I have tried to do the same! I am miserable, but my soul will not fail within me; it buck and fights and will not settle! My years have resembled hell, since I was acquainted with Mrs. Peach and Mr. Bowser, and yet I cannot sink into my lake of misery. My brain and my soul are too resisting! It is this feeling which drives me to write to you. I cannot sit, and wait for THOSE _she_ has summoned. I must do something! It is thus, Roy, that I beg your patience. Allow to me recur those trifling details which mark the path of my decline. Though you may remember them, allow me to record them as though you did not. Perhaps they shall have significance in another time. Perhaps you shall let your doctor friend see them. I have no doubt the newspapers shall... after I... but no. I must continue. I must not think of what is to come. I must think only of what has occurred!

The five weeks I spent upon the tour with yourself and the others were as close to felicity as ever I could have wanted. I did not expect to experience joy after Altea fell, but quite suddenly, I found myself possessed of good spirits. These feelings were, without a doubt, caused by the good company with whom I had united. When unhappiness confronts the finest of people, whom are of equal rank and connection, and enjoy the blessings of good manners and conversation, means, property and virtue, surely unhappiness and misfortune must flee! Yet my own misfortune, silent and waiting, was a dogged companion...

Mrs. Peach and Mr. Bowser , in those first few weeks, were fascinating. Mrs. Peach was quite taken with me—perhaps she thought I had been placed, by the hand of Providence, in her circle to act as her companion. She was a splendid woman, despite her flamboyance. She laughed and enchanted and dazzled my senses, flitted like a butterfly, and was staggeringly beautiful. You may laugh and groan all you wish, Roy, for I shall not object. Verily, I _cannot_ object! I was charmed, I shall admit, and do regret the day I laid eyes upon her!

Her husband was quite the opposite. I could not fathom him. In appearance, he was a turtle-like dragon (a Koopa, I later learned), constantly drinking spirits, and never growing intoxicated. He was a phlegmatic individual, generally dry and mocking of expression. When words passed his lips, they were brief and hard. I do not think his aimed to wound, but his language was often cutting, and for the first several weeks, I wondered that Mrs. Peach did not wane for sorrow under his harsh remarks. She was oddly stalwart, and laughed when he made wounding observations. But what startled me most was their general disregard for one another. He sampled his wines, and she talked of receptions, and neither paid attention to the other unless the occasion obliged. And then they were scathing.

Despite this dysfunction, I was enchanted by them. They had been kind, and had brought me into their circle. Their benignity engendered an appreciative love in my breast, and I did what I could to repay their kindness. I was attentive, indulgent, unselfish—their very interests became mine! It would seem that my opinion of my services, trifling as they were, are high, but oh, dearest Roy, when you grasp what misfortunes my services reaped... when you have understood the loving honesty in which they were performed, only to... only to...

Dear God!

* * *

_  
She_ has just quit the room, having entered upon the pretext of bringing me tea. The veritable enchantress! _I_ know her true intentions. _She_ only wishes to see if I am dead yet, to see if I have succumbed to those mysterious fits that so afflict the villains in the novels. I know, for I have read her thoughts in her great, window-like eyes. She presumes to hide her thoughts in pools of pity and misery, but there is no mask for truth! I mourn that my mind is stalwart, and will not fail, for all my wretchedness. But if my continuance gives her misery, then let there be no regret, only triumph! Her meanness shall not go unpunished. If it is ordained that I shall be her bane, then let it be so!

* * *

I could never fathom Mr. Bowser. Was he not an odd character? He and Mrs. Peach never seemed quite fond of one another. I suppose that is why, when we found ourselves in the city, and established in their townhouse, he was often away. Mrs. Peach told me he was an individual of property, and that they derived their income from the rental of their lands in the country. He had no business engagements, then, outside the townhouse. And yet, he was constantly occupied. I could not fathom why...

* * *

Doctor Link was most peculiar. Will you tell him I said so? He is often amused by such reports. I remember, when upon the tour, I ventured such an observation, and laughing, he replied, "Oh yes, I am a peculiar man, often doing the most peculiar things." He called for drink—I believe we were dining somewhere near the Opéra de Beau Monde—and leaned back in his chair. "You see, my good fellow, as a doctor, one must be willing to engage oneself in a variety matters, even those thought improper by one's community. Collecting skulls and other such fragments of the skeletal system, for instance, to serve as objects of scientific and medical study. Experimenting with medicines. Nursing the sick. Binding wounds. Administering anodynes. Dissecting and analyzing the dead." 

"That is quite..._ interesting_," I replied, as an attendant brought the doctor's glass of water. He drank a bit, and set the glass aside.

"It is," he agreed, recommencing, "but overall, I feel such work is quite ordinary." He leaned forward. "You see, it is my life's ambition to study far more peculiar things than I have mentioned."

"What might those things concern?" I asked.

He smiled. "Lunacy. Madness. Insanity."

I drew back. He laughed at my surprise, and followed my example, reposing in his chair and crossing a leg. "Yes, lunacy," he repeated. "A most fascinating subject one, no? Here you have patient who is alternately mad and sane, a rational being trapped in the skin of a monster. A monster dressed in the body of a respectable being." He paused. "There is a theory, handed down to us by the physicians of antiquity, that states the influence of the moon disturbs, on the occasion, the humours of mortals. So it is that _madness_, or _lunacy,_ is produced."

"I... see," I replied.

He leaned back again. "I have yearned to study this phenomenon ever since adolescence," he said, then caught my noncommittal expression. "You cannot understand my fascination until you have understood my history," he added, with some commiseration. "You see, I was once a simple youth—parentless, relatively privileged, maturing beneath the lax hand of a corpulent uncle, et cetera, et cetera. My uncle had a wife, with whom I was rather distant, and so I cannot mark with precision the day she went mad. In any case, it was most dreadful. I was consigned to my chambers, but effected escape, and so watched from the shadows of the staircase as my poor aunt was placed in a white van by medical authorities and taken away. Moments later, I became aware of the physician who attended her removal, uttering suppositions to my uncle. He said such phenomena is often seen in individuals of status, such as my aunt. _Why_ he did not know, but he mentioned several personages of whom the society pages had not spoken of in a while, as having suffered the same. My uncle was distraught; he could not understand. The doctor mentioned such possible factors as the influence of the moon, and spoke with such certainty that I was affected. The sight of my aunt, a woman of impeccability, being led away with foam upon her lips, excited my wish to know more. Was the doctor correct? Did the moon _truly_ causes madness? Perhaps, something else?"

He concluded his speech with a peculiar smile. I said, "Most fascinating."

He laughed, and continued frivolously, "Had I the means, I might have begun my research many years ago, and so would at this moment be shut up in Bedlam studying the movements of some incorrigible patient. Unfortunately, my practice has taken me far beyond that sphere and I have not come across any mad patients of late."

"I... do pity your misfortune."

"Ah yes, yes." He took a card from his coat pocket, and handed it to me. "Now, my good fellow, I have a task for you. Will you take this card (upon which I have penned my name, practice, and address of contact) and keep it? If ever you need a physician, I am at your service (for I hear parish doctors are most ineffectual! town ones are preferred) and—" His eyes glittered suddenly—"if ever you encounter a lunatic, I must entreat your _immediate_ communication. If I may come in possession of but one, I would be most pleased."

"Yes," I said, and taking the card, stored it in my pocket.

I wonder why I did.

* * *

_She_ is lingering outside the door. I know she is. I have lived with her for two years now, and have learned to mark her quiet footfalls. I think she is crying. What I would to do the same! 

Can _she_ be responsible for what has happened to us? No, no, she cannot! Poor dear! _She_ is as innocent as the little monkey you brought her several months ago: taken from her home, dressed in white silk, given a disgraceful role in a farce! Jigglypuff—I must write her name now, poor dear!—was ever so fond of the monkey. Did I ever tell you it died, only last month? I do not think it could acclimate itself to our climes, and wherever did you get that monkey? You are quite the globetrotter. You have visited many places beyond this city, I presume, for you are always mailing lines from some part of the Continent. What I would do to leave this city! Quit this house! This house of execrable affairs!

Mr. Bowser once owned it, you know. He allowed Jigglypuff and myself the use of it. We rent it for half of its worth.

The house is damned! Oh, and you were never fond of Mr. Bowser—

* * *

I pray you, dearest Roy, do not think ill of me! Had I known... but had I known!... what might I have done? Mrs. Peach and Mr. Bowser were kind—they allowed me a station—a wardrobe—a place in their company! _You_ thought it was all well until Mrs. Peach insisted I come and live with them—"Oh, and our house is big enough for three Mr. Marth. It would be no inconvenience! I would be _most_ devastated if you quit our circle, with no anticipation of a decent home!" 

Roy, how could I refuse? Their kindness had been great, and my attempts at repayment small. I was bereft of a home! Perhaps I was not in my right mind—I fear I was not—you were most upset when I accepted their proposal! I thought, perhaps, your distress was due to your dislike of Mr. Bowser—I thought it had no claim, was conceived in no reason—I thought, perhaps, you did not like his conversation—God help me! Such ridiculous notions!

I must compose myself. My pen records my frenzied unhappiness; I must be calm!

**IV**

I accepted Mrs. Peach's request only after I saw the approval Mr. Bowser showed. He gave the proposition his full support, and smiled—indeed, the first I had seen upon his lips! He said many agreeable things about the proposal, and seemed determined to promote it. I was not slow to accept.

My first impressions of their townhouse were promising. Though there was no park to isolate oneself from the neighbours, the front was most fetching. My sparse luggage was attended to, and I was given a tour of the house by Mrs. Peach herself. Mr. Bowser excused himself upon our arrival.

Several days after my arrival, there was a spate of calls for Mrs. Peach. I was left to my own amusements, and determined to explore the town. I proceeded outside, and had not gone far when I happened upon a curious sight: Mr. Bowser strolling in the opposite direction, in the company of another turtle-like creature, whose attire revealed her to be a female Koopa. I bowed, as he passed, and Mr. Bowser, with a startled look, took the arm of his companion and turned aside. His behaviour was most remarkable, and excited my curiosity.

He did not appear for supper that night.

I encountered Mr. Bowser in the foyer the next day. He took my hand, without warning, and squeezed it companionably, saying, "Mr. Marth—I was hoping I would find you. I must speak with you at once."

There was an odd note of cheeriness in his voice, and the strength of his grip was appalling. "Oh?" I said, and repressed with difficulty a pained wince. "I am most willing to attend."

"I have been anxious," he began, "regarding my wife. You see, I have been occupied these past few days, and have not been able to attend to her as I should. The occurrence is regrettable, but I fear little of my time can be spent upon her. She will find this deplorable, and will not see the reason in my request that she segregate herself from me. The work I am presently engaged in requires I have seclusion, and Mrs. Peach, capital woman though she is, does not seem to comprehend the necessity of isolation. She will not listen to me, for I am only her husband and—" he grimaced with seeming good-nature—"negligible. But," and here he smiled—"I know she will listen to you. You are our guest, and she is most fond of your company. I know she will listen to you."

"Really, sir?"

"Oh yes, yes." His grip tightened, he leaned closer. "If it is not too much, I beg you to keep my dear wife occupied—keep her from unease—it would not do to worry her darling head with my business and absences, eh?" His grin was so foreboding that I agreed.

"Of course! I will gladly keep her from worry, and yourself! I wish you good luck with your project."

He released my hand. "Ah, but you are a good sir," he said. "I thank you."

I kept my promise, as only a decent man could. I accompanied Mrs. Peach upon her calls, amused her friends, was present at socials and receptions, and kept her out of the way of her husband. She wished to go to the theatre, and so I ordered a box, despite my misgiving (what decent person attends the theatre?). As we sat watching the illustrious Madame A— Koopa croon the lines of Shakespeare's Titania ("Then I must be thy lady: but I know/When thou hast stolen away from fairy land/And in the shape of Corin sat all day/Playing on pipes of corn and versing love/To amorous Phillida...") Mrs. Peach whispered, "Those lines are choice! Now the Madame shall know the mind of the woman whose husband she plays false with! She is often in the midst of liaisons. The more sordid of the society pages even hint she is having one at this moment..."

And she laughed.

We encountered Madame A— in the salon, once the play had finished. At the time, I could not understand why my body chilled upon meeting her.

She quite like the female Koopa I saw in the company of Mr. Bowser several weeks ago.

* * *

When the weather did not permit our outdoor jaunts, I read to Mrs. Peach. She seemed taken by my reading voice, and declared that I should be an actor. "We shall put on a play!" she exclaimed, when I had finished a selection of Keat's poetry. "You shall play a magnificent role and be clothed as a king!" 

I thanked her for her commendations, and assured her I was no actor.

She laughed and insisted but at length gave up, and rang for tea. She glanced at the window behind her, drawing aside a curtain. "Oh see, the rain has stopped, and the sun has reappeared!" she cried. "Let us go for a promenade; perhaps we shall make a call by Mrs. Daisy's house!"

I agreed, and the tea came. Mrs. Peach ordered it returned to the kitchen, and that her cloak be brought instead. The tea was taken away and the cloak brought. As I set it about her shoulders, I marked her almost girlish enthusiasm: the twinkle of her vivid, blue eyes, the sweet curve her coral lips, the manner in which she fastened the mantle and spun on her ankle, before rushing from the drawing-room.

Surely she was essence of purity and charm! I pitied her, and that she had ever married one such as Mr. Bowser. "He is neglecting an angel," I thought. "An angel! But alas, I shall do as he has requested."

We ambled through the main road, stopping, upon exclamations from Mrs. Peach, to gaze into the windows of shops and mark their wares. We passed centres of recreation, and several times she wavered, saying Mrs. Daisy was inconsequential, and a stroll in the pleasure gardens would be _most_ delightful. But we persisted, and I sorely regret that we did. We came upon a sight that initiated the advance of _hell_.

Mrs. Peach has an unfortunately sharp eyes, and she saw Mr. Bowser, seated in a luncheonette, seconds before myself. "It's Mr. Bowser!" she cried, and turned abruptly into the restaurant. I could do little to arrest her progress; her cry startled me, and she was already inside by the time I realized what was happening. I hastened in after her.

"Bowser!" she cried again, weaving her way toward her table. "Bowser, there you are—!"

I suppose several weeks of isolation has excited her pleasure of seeing him. (Not that I supposed she harboured any pleasure regarding him to begin with; perhaps she thought it was expected.) But she froze suddenly, as though she'd seen the apparition of one thought dead, and her face drained of colour. "Mrs. Peach!" I exclaimed, hastening to her side. "Mr. Bowser, I apologize! I know you are busy, I did not expect, Mrs. Peach spotted you—"

And then I saw the reason Mrs. Peach had halted.

Seated at the table was the female Koopa I had seen earlier—without doubt, _this_ was Madame A— Koopa. She was brazenly dressed, like an actress, looking with defiance at the pallid Mrs. Peach. Her clawed hands were grasped in those of Mr. Bowser. He stood, abruptly, his face sardonic.

"Peach..." he said.

Her eyes narrowed, and she glanced at the insolent Madame A—, who gazed back. There was a moment's pause, and then, Mrs. Peach, without glancing at Mr. Bowser, said in a shrill tone, "I fear I am interrupting you."

"Assuredly," he replied.

Mrs. Peach swiveled slowly toward the door, and as she did so, a buoyant smile spread across her face, and a whisper of frivolous laughter left her lips. She did not glance at me as she went from the luncheonette. My mouth had gone dry. I looked toward Mr. Bowser. He looked back at me, steadily, and it was all I could do to keep from running from the luncheonette.

When I was at last in the street, I found Mrs. Peach had vanished.

* * *

I feared to return to their townhouse that day, but did. I tried, with little success, to calm my breathing, and assure myself that my involvement in this dreadful affair was blameless. _I_ had not known, had not suspected, and if ever the thought had crossed my mind regarding the nature of Mr. Bowser's occupation, it was too low to entertain! Mr. Bowser had been noble and generous—Yes, dearest Roy, even _then _I was convinced of the nobility and virtue that complements generosity! 

I was admitted by the concierge, and learned Mrs. Peach was in the parlor. I found her seated beside an empty hearth, vacantly sipping a cup of tea. My heart contracted to see her thus. "Mrs. Peach!" I began, stepping into the room. "I—"

She stood, suddenly, the violence of her movement belying the frailty of her figure. I was startled into silence. She held my eyes for a moment, and then her gaze slid, with majestic slowness, beyond mine. Her body straightened, her small hands curled, and she walked past me with nary a glance in my direction.

"I hope you die," she murmured, as she passed me.

What composure thrives when it has been thus wished dead?

I lost what little equanimity I possessed following that episode. I never supposed myself to be of an especially resilient constitution, and so I was wholly toppled in that instant. I stood immobile until Mrs. Peach was quite gone, and then repaired to my room. Dear God! What had I done?

I collapsed brokenly onto my bed, and hid my face in my hands. There was no comfort to be derived from the cold grate and frozen darkness that encapsulated me. My mind was turbulent—what had I done? What could I do? What would happen to me? Mrs. Peach was firmly of the opinion I had known of her husband's unfaithfulness, and had deliberately kept her from him. There had been no forgiveness in her pale face, no kindness in her whispered hope. What could I do? Were my prospects forever ruined? I may have wept—I cannot recall—and fell asleep pondering these ideas.

* * *

I dined in isolation for the next several days. Mr. Bowser reappeared, as languid and nonchalant as ever, and the wheels of routine began to turn once more. But alas! All was doomed to change. Mrs. Peach avoided me, and Mr. Bowser hardly deigned to look in my direction. I was distraught, and could bot bring myself to offer apologies or commiserating language for fear of exciting further resentment. 

To my surprise, Mr. Bowser and Mrs. Peach, seeming far from estranged, began to hold whispered conferences with one another. These discussions greatly affected the disposition of both: Mrs. Peach often emerged harried of visage, and Mr. Boswer a leisurely vision of satisfaction. What they discussed was beyond my knowledge and concern, as I was too distressed. I applied to you—dearest Roy, do you remember that letter?—and entreated your sympathy. I am still in possession of your reply. It was so compassionate and prayerful! To this day I lament that I did not take up your proposition of change of residence that instant!

All that morning, there had been knocks upon the front door. Having that day received your letter, I was hardly cognizant of what went on downstairs, and was therefore surprised to hear a rap upon my door, and Mr. Bowser's voice, bearing a note of cheerfulness I had heard before, say, "Mr. Marth! If you would be so kind as to oblige the request of an old friend, I would be delighted if you came downstairs for a moment. There is a gentleman I wish for you to meet."

I started from my desk, and hastened to the door. "Of course, Mr. Bowser! I would be more than happy to oblige you!" I exclaimed. You may mourn my actions, but Roy, what could I do? I had been estranged from my benefactors for several days now, and was anxious to redress those ills which led to our separation! I left the room, and Mr. Bowser, with a few hearty words of approbation, conducted me downstairs.

Mrs. Peach was in the parlor. She looked up as we entered, and leaped to her feet with a clap of her hands. "Mr. Marth!" she cried, and looked directly into my face. "I am so _delighted_ you have come down!"

She simpered and dimpled and turned toward a creature seated stiffly upon the chesterfield. "Mr. Mewtwo," she said, with another clap of her hands, "this is our dear Mr. Marth. The pride of this household!"

Mr. Mewtwo was unlike any individual I have yet seen. He had an alabaster complexion, and was dressed in a shabby black frock and coat. He reminded me of a cat placed ignominiously upon its legs. His head was weirdly shaped, his eyes purple and sunken. A long tail curled about his thick ankles. He stood rigidly, and held out a hand.

"Mr. Marth," he said, with all the emotion of a wooden block. "I am... delighted."

"The happiness of acquaintance is mine also," I said, with mounting unease.

"Mr. Marth is the pride of our household!" repeated Mrs. Peach, placing, to my chagrin, a hand upon my shoulder.

"He is like a son to us," said Mr. Bowser.

_Pardon?_ I wished to ask. _A son_? I could not fathom his meaning. Oh God! Had I only done so, I would not be where I am now!

"I... see," said Mr. Mewtwo. His voice was steeped in a dying richness, a timbre worn ragged by abject circumstance. He looked to be a penniless clerk, a middle-class man whose income was insufficient. He gestured to the sofa at my left. "My dear," he said, in a voice more fatigued than before, "Rise, please..."

I turned to the couch, startled by this new presence, embarrassed I had forgotten to bow. Half-inclined, I raised my eyes, and realised _what_ I was bowing to. Where I had expected a lady, I saw only a heap of substandard fabric. The heap moved, and a round, coral pink creature materialized from the folds. It tumbled to the floor, squeaking as it fell, and stumbled in a graceless flurry of worn, brown crepe to the side of Mr. Mewtwo.

"Mr. Marth," he said, and nodded at the creature. "My daughter, Miss Jigglypuff."

* * *

_I am most appreciate of the reviews; each and every one was beautiful! Thank you **razzkat**__(I'm glad Marth's voice comes across in a more or less genuine manner!); **Naoki07**__(Your comments are purely delightful! I'm very touched you are enjoying this, excellent author that you yourself are! I'm glad Marth and Roy's camaraderie is well-defined, even at this inchoate stage. Thank you so much for your support!); **CucumberPickles**__(The Chronicles of Narnia!__ Thank you! Yes, the reiterated she __is Jigglypuff.); **RoyalFanatic**__(Thank you for your review! I'm glad this fic is comparatively comprehensible.); **PirateGoddess27**__(Your comment was astounding; thank you very much!); and **MissPixel**__(Thank you for your approbation! I referred to Mrs. Peach as 'fatal' as an allusion to her role in Marth's "disgrace"—I hope it's all right—and Dr. Link smiled thinly during the introduction because he finds amusement in Mrs. Peach's grandiosely laudatory comments). _

_ A few notes regarding the text: _

_The selection of Shakespeare is from Midsummer Night's Dream (66-70). Mrs. Peach's "I hope you die," is derived from 'The Portrait Of Mrs. Charbuque' by Jeffrey Ford.__ Formerly, I planned for The Companion__ to have merely three chapters. However, chapter 2 came out much longer than anticipated, and I was obliged to cut it before originally intended. Therefore, I am increasing the number of chapters to four. Also, I'm not very happy with the title. This chapter is supposed to clarify the title, but it fails to encapsulate the entire story. So... I may change that portion of it. _

_Regarding a disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters appearing in this story that are evidently derived from Super Smash Brothers, and/or their respective video games.  
_

_Questions, comments, criticisms, etc. are welcome._

_Cheers,_

_ Opus Triumphant (10. 30. 05)_


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